The First Spy Is Always The Hardest
by flawedesires
Summary: Zach Goode is the perfect spy. Handsome, dangerous, skilled, smart, able to parachute from a moving train. His recent mission was to keep Cammie Morgan safe, who's managed to tell us so much. But she isn't the only one with a story.
1. Chapter 1

**So I know that this idea isn't exactly original, but I decided to do it anyway. Ally Carter has left us hanging on the last page of OGSY (sadly) and no one knows what really happened behind the scenes. Why is the COC really after Cammie? Is Zach even a Blackthorne Boy anymore? Will Mr. Solomon ever take down the Circle? What happened to Matt Morgan?**

**Fortunately for all you Gallagher-depraved readers, I've taken it upon myself to answer those questions, like a few others. I'm sorry if this isn't that great, I'm pretty new to the world of Gallagher FanFiction (I'm a Percy Jackson writer), so any advice or constructive criticism will be appreciated.**

**Thanks!**

**Disclaimer: The rights of this series belong to none other than Ally Carter. **

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><p><strong>1**

I know most teenagers have problems.

Normal teenagers get into fights with their parents. They cry over a tough breakup. They struggle with school and tests, bullying and friends.

Normal teenagers definitely don't rely on reflexes and luck alone to avoid getting sliced in half in P.E. They don't pour one liquid into another in Chemistry and hope to God the professor didn't forget to leave out the nuclear matter _again_.

The list could go on and on, but, being at my status, I know I can't say too much. The point is…

Normal teenagers don't go to _my_ school.

I blew on my hands, trying to warm them, but it didn't help. I stuffed them in my pockets instead. They were numb anyway.

Leaves crunched under my feet and cold air bit at my face, but it wasn't anything I wasn't used to. Every rock, crack, and stick around me I'd seen more than a thousand times. And memorized, just to be safe.

So there wasn't anything really exciting about walking down that empty road. Or _somewhat_ empty road.

Every fifteen minutes or so, a car would zoom past me, usually so fast I only caught half a glimpse of the people inside; of the strange looks that came over their tired faces as they spotted me.

Because a sixteen-year-old kid in a puke-yellow jumpsuit and army boots alone at five in the morning is such a strange sight here.

Why had I chosen to walk, you might ask?

Yeah, I had a car. My family had more than its fair share of cars. I had people—a person, more like—to drive me if I wanted. (_I_ could drive me if I wanted, but that's a secret.) Going on foot was purely my choice.

Besides, I'd rather walk for two days than spend an hour in a confined space with _her_.

Most people would think it harsh to talk that way about a person's own mother, but…well, those people have never met my mother.

Not that she's a cruel woman or anything (okay, maybe a little). She let me do my own thing, like, for example, sneaking out of boarding school every night to visit my dad when she isn't around, or listening in on her closeted conversations when she doesn't know I'm there.

But my mother has that incredibly dangerous ability to seem perfectly normal and sweet on the outside, but easily manipulate you into doing whatever she wants in an instant. And she never hesitates to use that power.

It'd taken years of my childhood before I'd managed to immune myself from her tricks. Still, sometimes—just sometimes—I find myself doing one thing, thinking I'm outsmarting her, but then realizing I'm doing exactly what she wanted all along.

A criminal mastermind, that woman is. No joke.

Thankfully, it was my decision and not hers to begin this covert operations report. Hopefully, she won't even know. Because as one of _my kind_, it's always a good idea to write down whatever's going on in my hellish life.

So that way, if anything happens, at least one person knows. Someone always knows.

Something moving caught my eye suddenly, but I didn't stop, just in case. A tail can never know you see them. It twirled in front of me. I tensed, but… It was a leaf.

It danced on the breeze like some crazy ballerina showing off, doing flips and dips that wouldn't normally be possible before flying off into the direction I was walking in, leading my gaze to…

I'd been walking for oh, an hour before the flat grayish buildings appeared in my vision, steadily growing larger and larger until I could see the cars zooming past the thin gray fence, and the sign that hung there.

BLACKTHORNE INSTITUTE FOR BOYS, PRIVATE DETENTION FACILITY. DANGER. NO TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT.

I wanted to snort. Who would trespass into a prison?

Yes, I was an inmate at Blackthorne Institute for Boys, a not-so-well-known "detention facility." What had I done to land myself there? Absolutely nothing. Except pass an IQ test made for someone at Einstein's level. And be able to impale a fly with a nail gun twenty feet away from the target.

I had no doubt that the Institute knew about my nightly escapes; I had no doubt they didn't care. As long as I was there in the morning for their ridiculously dangerous courses, they were fine with me.

They would rather I didn't exist anyway.

I sighed. My breath lingered in the air like a ghost for a second, but I was already walking through it.

Hands in my pockets, I snuck past the gate calmly, like any student delinquent. Like there weren't steel walls waiting to bounce up under that fence, or incredibly explosive mines embedded in the ground ready to make any intruders a smear on the floor.

I went like I didn't know that most of the boys inside probably didn't have families at all, nor that the director awaiting me was in fact not a director. Nor that the Blackthorne Institute for Boys wasn't a "detention facility" at all.

I walked like I didn't know the most important secret of all.

That's a good technique to master, if you're one of mine. Learn to act like you're an ignorant fool. Learn to pretend you don't know most of what you do. Learn to be who you're not.

In my business, it's the thing that could safe your life. It's the thing that could end your life, if you're not careful.

Once past all the security preventing "normal" people from entering, I found the foot-thick doors locked, except for the little scanner pad inviting my finger to it. I pressed my thumb against the surface, and felt it heat up under my skin.

"Welcome back, Zachary," the machine said, as if I'd been gone only a second. The doors hissed as pressurized Blackthorne air escaped through, then swung open, gloomily beckoning me inside.

_Right._ Welcome back. I sighed.

Another year, another lifetime.

"Welcome to Blackthorne Institute for spies," I muttered to myself.

* * *

><p>After the usual body-scan, x-ray machine, and retina scanner that followed the doors, I walked into the main building, where I found it way too routine to merge with the long, organized line to the mess hall, where "Selected Language: Italian" was scrawled in thick black marker on a ratty white board outside the steel doors.<p>

The mess hall wasn't much different than the rest of Blackthorne.

Sixteen barred windows were placed seven feet off the ground. One set of guarded doors were locked. Over a hundred potential weapons were within easy reach.

The plastic utensils looked a little worn, but otherwise clean and, for the moment, untouched. The tables had many questionable dark stains, but no one dared to comment on them. Flies buzzed lazily around the flickering lights for a few seconds before getting vaporized by built-in lasers.

I grimaced to myself. I doubted any of it was because of budget cuts.

The head table was a little nicer, what with the lack of bullet holes and all, but it definitely looked better than the teachers. Dr. Steve, with his sickeningly enthusiastic face, Mr. Emmons, with his bulldog-like wrinkles, Major Moore, with his missing nose. All things I'd gotten used to seeing, but sort of wished I wouldn't ever see again.

What a stupid wish.

The slamming doors didn't even make our heads turn. The clicking boots didn't make anyone flinch. The booming voice didn't make us falter.

"Where do you stand?" The Operative, only known to us as such, swept the room with cold eyes as he demanded the question.

"With Blackthorne, sir!" The mechanical answer was a chant in unison.

"Where do you fight?"

"With Blackthorne, sir!" The words felt empty coming out of my mouth. Without looking around I knew that nothing moved but mouths, eyes were trained on the Operative as if glued there, and, though it had been warm just a few seconds before, I was cold.

"Who do you die for?"

"For Blackthorne, sir!" I repeated the words I'd been saying for two years, the words they made us pledge every semester. I made the same gesture I'd been mimicking for what seemed like a lifetime—fist over heart, strength over emotion, until I heard "At ease!" and we all sat.

The normal murmur of conversation overtook the silence at the sight of the Operative's disinterested wave of the hand. The familiar clicks of plastic on metal resounded in my ears.

"Hey, Zach," Grant muttered out of the corner of his mouth, in English, despite the Italian order.

Grant is my best friend, just about the strongest guy I've ever met, maybe one of the smartest, though if you didn't know him you wouldn't think so. His mom's "watchers" combined with his test scores had a whole crew of black suits appearing at their door a few years back, and less than a month later Grant was an official Blackthorne Boy, to his mother's dismay.

According to him, she was once CIA, his dad FBI—and they definitely weren't supposed to be together. Baby Grant was maybe the biggest breach the agencies ever had (and a link they definitely didn't want), and, whether they admit it or not, his parents took the heat.

His dad was blown to pieces on an FBI-ordered mission in Peru. It was his second day there. His mom kept herself out of the CIA's blast-zone by going into deep cover for three years, taking Grant with her. She brought back triply-classified information that pushed the CIA to promote her instead of taking everything, or worse.

Grant was brought up to hate both agencies, and swore he would never join either of them. That made most question what he was doing at Blackthorne in the first place, if not to become a top spy for a top agency.

Only the seniors and I had any clue about what business Grant might end up in. Something that Blackthorne's "curriculum" no longer contained, not since the seniors' seniors' eighth grade year, but wouldn't stop him. Something he had never mentioned, never leaned toward in public. But I knew.

Grant would become an assassin.

"Hey," I responded quieter, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was listening. Which was a stupid thing to do, really. Someone's always listening.

"How's your family?"

Too easy to catch the real question behind that. "Up to no good, probably," I grumbled. "How's your mom?" I only got a snort for a response.

"So, Zach," Jonas said in fluent Italian, "what d'you think the Operative's planning this year?"

Immediately the chatter died down a bit as the whole table leaned forward to listen.

Sean Miller grinned. "I heard we're going to infiltrate the KGB," he whispered in English, earning him a glare from Jonas (major rule-follower).

Grant followed Sean's example. "_I_ heard we're kidnapping a senator." A glint appeared in his eyes that made everyone recoil half an inch.

"What you _hear_ and what you _know_ are two different things, boys."

Every single back straightened like a steel pole at the sound of the voice. "Hello, Mr. Solomon," I said.

I felt a hand pat my back. "Hello, Zachary." I heard the smile in his voice.

"You know what we're doing, don't you, sir?" Grant confronted abruptly.

"I work there, Grant," was Joe Solomon's dry reply before he walked off.

All eyes turned to me. "Where does he work?" Jonas questioned earnestly.

It'd become a knee-jerk reaction. It was a fact that I did know exactly where Joe Solomon worked, but wasn't supposed to. That I knew what he was up to, but wasn't allowed to. Truthfully, I wasn't allowed to know anything.

In the last few years at Blackthorne, Joe had become my closest ally—and lately, one of my closest friends. He was the only one who understood, the only one who knew exactly what kind of recruitment went on inside the stone walls of Blackthorne. He was the only one that could help me keep other people from getting sucked into it.

You're probably wondering what "it" is. Funny thing, it's the very thing _I'm_ sucked into, and not by choice. My mother, Amanda Turner Goode, is high up on the pyramid of said "it." And she very well expects me to join her cause.

And Joe? He's already in it. Way in it. So much, using me to keep himself afloat. So deep, he's almost flailing.

I turned around to frown at his back. "I don't know," I lied.

The others didn't lose interest so easily, but they left me alone when they realized that I wasn't going to tell them anything. I kept watching Mr. Solomon as he patrolled around the tables, nodding to random students, until he circled his way to the head table, and fist-over-hearted with the Operative.

_Are we all set with the academy? _I read on the Operative's lips.

_Yes,_ Joe answered. He chuckled at a joke no one else knew. _She wasn't very happy._

I couldn't hear his voice, but I would've bet anything that the Operative's words were as cold as a corpse when he spoke. _Rachel Morgan's happiness isn't our priority, Solomon. Have you chosen your boys?_

_Yes,_ Joe said again, but his face was hard this time. _I'll have them gone by noon._

* * *

><p>Apparently, I wasn't the only one lip-reading Joe and the Operative's conversation, because when we were leaving the cafeteria Grant nudged me and whispered, "What was Solomon talking about?"<p>

"I don't know," I told him. This time, I didn't know if he bought it.

"Zach!"

I turned to find Joe himself waiting for me outside the cafeteria, hands in his pockets, leaning against the rough wall. I nodded to Grant to leave without me, which he shrugged and did, but not before throwing me a look that ordered me to find out what everyone else wanted to know.

"Hi, Joe," I said.

He chuckled. "I take it you know all about your assignment this year?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Do I?"

He shook his head. "What do you think? Dangerous?"

"Very," I answered. "Maybe even more dangerous than last year's."

He let a pause roll between us. "They've never had anything like you before," he told me finally. "You'll be watched, every second of the day if they can manage it."

"I didn't know they'd be that interested in me," I said wryly.

He laughed. "Oh, you have no idea."

"What are you doing here?" My abrupt interrogation seemed to catch him off guard; I immediately noticed his back went straighter.

He eyed me as if he were sizing me up, but didn't answer the question. "I think you'll do nicely. I have a special assignment for you, Zach."

"What kind of special assignment?"

He smiled. "When they give you your missions today, the others can have their pick. Yours is already chosen." He slipped me a thin file. "This one is yours, and yours alone."

"Why?" I asked, suspicious.

To this day, I don't know what Joe Solomon was thinking when he winked at me and said, "Just…tell me what you think of her."

I snorted, then turned to leave, when his voice called me back.

"Out of curiosity, where do you think we're going?"

I looked over my shoulder, grinning. "Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women," I said. "Our sister school."

I heard a, "Very good, Zach," as I left, but I didn't give it another thought. It was too easy. Rachel Morgan was easily one of the most dangerous spies in the world—and I'd only heard her name once or twice before, but I already knew what she was. She was headmistress of Gallagher Academy, spy school for _girls_.

I grimaced to myself as I realized that Grant wouldn't rest—torture not excluded—until I told him what Mr. Solomon was planning. Then I laughed, because Mr. Solomon hadn't said I _couldn't_ tell anyone.

I sprinted for my first…um, class, I guess you'd call it. Us? We simply call is Block One, otherwise dubbed "Artillery and Missile Studies" by inmates.

Our "instructor," Major Moore, wouldn't appreciate tardiness. But when I got there, the whole division was already suited up and ready to go.

Except I didn't know that until I walked through the door.

The first burst of heavy machinery bullets had me ducking, rolling, diving, flipping, and dodging instinctively, until I finally smashed into Major Moore's desk. He frowned down at me, his mustache twitching.

"You're late, Mr. Goode," he grumbled.

I jumped to my feet and gave him the Blackthorne gesture. "Sorry, sir," I said stiffly. "Mr. Solomon held me back."

"Excuses, excuses," he snapped. "To Station 22!"

"Yes, sir."

Station 22. Most said that it'd been the same place where more than one Blackthorne inmate had died before, mostly because of its less-than-effective blast shield, lack of goggles or other protective gear, and oh yeah, probably faulty equipment.

I examined the piece left for me. Sure enough, the stock was shot. Literally. I ripped it off. It would burn my cheek, no doubt, but that wasn't something that Major Moore had sympathy for, neither something I couldn't take.

I had my sniper rifle assembled and loaded in less than thirty seconds. I was just putting the scope to my eye when Sean Miller yelled, "So why're you late?" over the sound of his machine gun.

"Solomon wanted to talk to me!" I shouted back. I took a breath, then crouched down again and fired. The metal against my face seared, making me grit my teeth, but I fired repeatedly at the small red target over 200 yards away from me, just to keep up appearances, then quickly crouched down.

My cheek burned, but I ignored it. Someone would treat it for me later. After checking to see where Moore was, I stared at the file Joe Solomon had given me.

"What's that?" Sean had the good sense to lower his voice when he asked the question.

"Data," I assured. "Cover for me, yeah?"

Sean nodded, but judging from his expression, he didn't really believe me. But he blocked me from the Major's view and masked the sound of paper with his gun anyway. What are friends for?

I looked back at the file. It was simple, Evapopaper-made, with only two sheets inside. I frowned.

I read the heading.

**Cameron "Cammie" Ann Morgan **

**Status: Gallagher Girl**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry this chapter is so bad, I was in a rush, and it's late on my side of the world, but at least you have a chapter, don't you? :)**

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><p><strong>2**

Time is easily the world's greatest spy. It sneaks up on you when you're not looking, pulls the rug right out from under you if you're not careful. It escapes far too easily, gets away with stealing your life and your dreams, all without a trace.

You always have to keep an eye on it. Or it could kill you. But then again, when you're a spy, a lot of things can kill you.

By the end of Block One, I was finished with Joe's file. I'd read it at least 20 times over. There was almost no information of value in it, which, of course, was no mistake.

I'd already memorized it, so I dropped it in a vat of hydrochloric acid in Block Five and watched it disappear, then fed it to a test subject just to be sure.

_What I knew:_ Cameron Ann Morgan, sixteen, was the daughter of headmistress Rachel Morgan, and missing-in-action Matthew Morgan. She was good. She was very good, but she had a red flag (already)—an affair with an unnamed civilian last semester had gotten her a black mark in her book.

Of course, the civilian's memory was wiped, but I knew she was probably being watched, and she probably didn't know it. I also knew she had no idea about us.

_What I didn't (which was the biggest problem):_ What she looked like.

I figured it was Mr. Solomon's doing that there was no picture of Cammie Morgan inside. He was testing me. For what? I didn't know. All I did know was that when the time came I'd have to know Cammie Morgan when I saw her, even if I didn't exactly know how to do that…yet.

10:15 a.m. The hallway leading to Block Three (Nuclear Chemistry) was completely empty, which worried me. Abandoned halls meant that everyone was in class. Which meant that…I was late.

Tardiness was not appreciated at Blackthorne—in fact, Mr. Emmons usually whipped late kids. Other teachers also used extreme methods to drill the Operative's extensive rules into us. And so far, almost no one had suffered from breaking even the slightest of rules. Almost.

When I reached Dr. Steve's lab, the door was closed, which signaled that he was on a rampage with his enthusiastic lectures.

Dr. Steven Sanders, who insisted on being called Dr. Steve at all times, was by far one of the strangest people in the world. Though he worked at what was technically a prison, he was enthusiastic about anything and everything, and in his mind, the rest of the world should've joined in his ideas. Poor guy was in the wrong crowd.

It was only fitting that Dr. Steve was the Block Three instructor. He was practically a mad scientist. Unluckily for us, however, due to a fatal accident last year in Covert Operations, Dr. Steve was also the replacement Block Two (CoveOps) commander. Whoopee.

No one knew much about Dr. Steve, but then again, no one really cared enough to want to. All I knew was that he was CIA. Oh, and he tended to attack tardiness with the usage as lab rats.

I rapped on the door, half expecting it to explode.

It did.

A boom deafened me as fire raged against the bullet-proof glass of the door, followed by screaming, yelling, the spewing of a fire extinguisher (specially designed), and then suddenly it all went out.

The door swung open with a bang. A wave of smoke poured out, searing my throat. I coughed.

"Yes?" Dr. Steve's face was blackened, his hair on end, and his lab coat singed as he blinked at me, as if temporarily blind, but he still smiled brightly. "Zachary! Excellent! Come inside!" He grabbed a fistful of my shirt and deftly pulled me into the room, which had a distinct blast mark on the floor that had definitely not been there before.

"Sit," Dr. Steve commanded, pointing at my chair (with half the desk missing). I sat. "Stay here," he instructed. "I must speak with the Operative about these explosives!"

And with smoke trailing behind him, Dr. Steve abruptly dashed out the door.

Sean Miller was in front of my desk in an instant. "Zach, I know you know about the Operative's mission. So tell me. Now." He looked like a puppy—excited, eager, and sort of threatening.

Still, I grinned. "We're going on an adventure no Blackthorne Boy has ever gone on before," I said dramatically, standing up. "With infinitely more danger than any one of us has ever seen."

"More dangerous than last year?" questioned George Seymour, who'd witnessed Katrina.

"Definitely," I answered. "Boys, we're going to Gallagher Academy, spy school for—"

"Girls!" Sean crowed.

* * *

><p>It was only Dr. Steve's sudden reappearance that got the boys to stop square dancing. They went back to knowing nothing, which they did well. They <em>were<em> spies, after all.

In Block Seven (Cryptology), at exactly 11:28 am, while the rest of the guys' hopes of our special mission would never come, a knock at the door shook us awake.

Mr. Emmons frowned, which made him look like someone had grabbed his cheeks and stretched them out. "Who is it?" he barked.

Dr. Steve's head poked in, eerily happy. "Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Emmons," he told our grumpy teacher. "Surprise assignment!"

We were dead silent as we marched through Blackthorne's steel, reinforced hallways equipped with trapdoors and lasers. Still, I could sense Sean Miller beside me, quivering with excitement, and Jonas in front of me, a spring in his step. Tyler Wong looked absolutely ecstatic. Marcel Bartolini was smiling. George Seymour was practically dancing. Grant was grinning fit to split his face in half.

Looks of disbelief cut through their features when we stepped outside and got a glimpse of our ride.

Less than five minutes later, the fifteen of us ushered into a van for a road trip that lasted exactly seven hours and five minutes.

Sean Miller and Jonas passed the time by playing cards on the crowded bench. An hour in, Tyler's sleeping gas gun went off and knocked them both out. Grant played intense footsies with Marcel, which ended up in two pairs of severely bruised legs. George and I spent a while shooting Skittles into each other's mouths, but after we hit Dr. Steve on the forehead, we were left with the only option of sleeping.

_Seven hours and five minutes. _Completely wasted.

I shoved Jonas's head off my shoulder as the van pulled to a stop. "Jonas."

"Huh?" He wiped his mouth and blinked, dazed. "What happened?"

I tried to peer through the crack in the van's doors. "We're here."

Dr. Steve's voice pulled all attention to the front of the van, where he'd been asleep for the past hour.

"Indeed we are!" he cried. "Excellent!" His face faltered at the lack of enthusiasm from the us. "Yes, erm, well, does anyone know what we're doing today? Anyone? Yes—Zachary."

I hadn't raised my hand. I was about to tell him I didn't know, but, looking at the expectant gazes from the rest of the van, I knew there was no escaping. "We're infiltrating Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women, a spy school for girls."

Jonas, who wasn't in Block Three with us, frowned. "How…?" he asked, like he was expecting me to say I broke laws to do it.

Dr. Steve stared at me with renewed interest. "Yes, Zachary, how did you know?"

I pointed to myself. "Spy, sir."

A couple of chuckles rose from my friends. Dr. Steve collected himself. "Right, well. Yesterday, Mr. Solomon informed me that the Gallagher Girls will be conducting a Covert Operations mission today—counter surveillance. It will be your job to pick a girl and tail her throughout the day without losing her. If possible, prevent her from reaching the meeting point at all by 5:00, and be back here by 8:00 at the latest. Understood?"

"Yes sir," we chorused.

"Good. Each of you, take a comm. Run along, now."

The whole van was emptied within seconds.

Light pierced my eyes, blinding me for a second, but I heard Jonas's astonished voice saying, "The Mall. We're at the Mall."

I forced my eyes open to find that Jonas was right. To my left, the Washington Monument towered above everyone else, casting a long shadow before it. To my right, the White House peeked out from a curtain of trees. In front of me stood the Natural History museum, standing tall and proud. Behind me loomed the Smithsonian castle in all its medieval-style glory.

I heard the soft crunch of fourteen other pairs of army boots landing on sand, then the rustle of denim as my classmates scattered one by one, until I heard nothing. When I glanced around, the guys had disappeared into plain sight, leaving me utterly alone.

The Operative would've been pleased.

"So," Grant's voice said beside me. "Shall we?"

Okay, _somewhat_ alone.

"Yep," I said.

And I sat down on a nearby bench.

Grant stared at me. "Dude, what are you doing?"

I looked up. "Waiting."

My friend looked down at me for a second, scrutinizing, but I guess he decided to trust me, because he sat down beside me.

And we waited.

* * *

><p>If you asked me how long we sat there, waiting, I would lie and tell you I had no idea. In reality, it was twenty-one minutes and fifty seconds of us listening intensely to the sounds coming through our comms and Grant checking security tapes with his phone (courtesy of Jonas).<p>

"Check out those two," he said, gesturing with his chin.

I followed his gaze with a bored resolve—he'd been picking out girls at random, hoping to catch a Gallagher Girl, with no luck. But these ones? I saw them immediately.

One was a tall, dark-skinned beauty, exotic in every feature and in no way native to the U.S. She was talking to a slightly plainer girl, who looked frustrated. They wore plaid skirts, white blouses, and thin coats.

"Come on, Cam!" the girl exclaimed, looking exasperated.

Cam. Could that be short for…Cammie? From where we were sitting, the potential Cammie Morgan didn't look like much. Nothing like the blurry pictures of Rachel Morgan I'd once seen in an open file in the Operative's office. But she had the same eyes, the same sort of mouth—the kind that said, _I know something you don't._

Besides that, from what I could see, she was…average. She wasn't too tall or too short, too skinny or too thick, she wasn't too _anything_. In fact, if it hadn't been for her foreign friend, I probably wouldn't have seen her at all.

And for some reason, I got the sense that she liked it better that way.

The tall one turned my way—and a glint caught my eye suddenly. There was a distinct crest sewn into her coat: a small skull inside a shield. Even though Grant and I were thirty feet away, I could still read the print inside it.

_Gallagher Academy._

"Grant," I said quietly.

"I see it," he responded.

The stunning girl threw her arms out wide as she talked, her words intelligible. Judging from the look on "Cam's" face, she was giving a major pep talk. The first girl shot us a winking glance over her shoulder, put her arm around Cammie, then said, loudly enough so that her words carried over to us, "I _want_ one."

Her friend gave us a tired look. "They're not puppies."

The beauty grabbed her hand. "Come on, let's go talk to them! They're really cute!"

The considering glance from Cammie clearly said she agreed, but she protested, "Bex, we have a mission."

The two argued for a while, then finally "Bex" gave up, threw us a fleeting look, and they walked off.

"I got dibs on the hot one," Grant warned immediately once they were out of earshot.

"I have the other one, then," I said, leaning back. As if I didn't already know who she was.

We waited until the girls were two specks in front of the museum, then got up and followed them.

"What do you think?" Grant asked. "I got a chance, right?"

"Her name's Bex," I said. "Bex Baxter. The other one's Cammie Morgan."

Grant looked at me weird. "How…? You know what?" He shook his head. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

I laughed. "I didn't do anything _illegal_ this time. And I'm not a stalker or anything; Mr. Solomon just wants me to keep an eye on her."

"Why?"

"Don't you think if I knew I would've told you a few seconds ago?"

"No."

I rolled my eyes.

Cammie and Bex walked around trying to shake potential tails for over an hour, skipping from museum to museum, going up the stairs, then coming down the escalator, fixing their hair in mirrors when it looked fine, going to the bathroom (to argue loudly, then come out looking scared), all with Grant and me following them at a safe distance, hoping they wouldn't see us.

"Looks like we're not the only tails," I said, gesturing with my eyes to a man in a navy suit—who'd only a few minutes ago had been wearing a football jersey and jeans.

"I didn't think we would be," Grant replied. "Girls like them?"

"What, spies?" I asked.

Grant pinched the bridge of his nose, as if I were a hopeless case. "No, Zach."

And for once, I didn't know what he was talking about.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you guys for all the reviews and favorites :) I'm glad I can give you something to read :) Again, these are choppy, so sorry, but enjoy!**

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><p><strong>3**

Timing is essential to a spy's way of life. It can be just another day of your career, or the end of it, if you're not careful. Grant and I knew this well. So we were careful.

After a while (ten minutes to be specific), we decided it wasn't safe to follow them for so long. They _were_ spies after all. Instead, we began to follow a group of chattering tourist girls in white blouses. They immediately noticed us despite out attempts, and giggled loudly.

Bex checked yet again over her shoulder for tails, but if she saw us, I didn't know. She turned to Cammie, almost questioningly. A silent understanding passed between their eyes for just a second. "Do it!" Cammie hissed.

And suddenly they disappeared into the crowd of girls in front of us.

Grant muttered a French curse under his breath. "Where'd they go?" he demanded.

"How should I know?"

We searched the girls the only way we knew how to search girls: discreetly (and with our eyes). They were a mix of voices, hair colors, and faces. Impossible to see through. Impossible to separate. They all wore the same white blouses as both Cammie and Bex, which made them…invisible.

The girls laughed suddenly, and about twenty faces turned to stare at us. I caught a fragment of Bex's voice shouting, "Let's run and get it!" Then, the next thing I knew, the girls were disappearing down the escalator into the Metro Station.

Grant and I practically jumped the stairs to get to the bottom, frantically searching the crowds for fear of losing them, but they seemed to have vanished. We whirled around at the sound of a giggle, only to find Cammie and Bex under the escalator, waving at an angry-looking navy lieutenant pressed up against a Metro train's glass. Who'd been wearing something completely different not too long ago.

We were lucky enough that they didn't see us; they only waited until the train was gone, then walked off. No one seemed to notice as we followed behind them discreetly, to just outside the Metro Station, where we watched them have a quick conversation, then split up suddenly.

"Zachary, quickly," Dr. Steve's voice made us pause mid-step. "The woman twenty meters ahead—what did she just buy?"

"Corn dog, chili on the side," I answered immediately.

"Grant, the baby in the park—what's his name?"

"Evan," Grant replied smoothly. And the comms went silent.

"Good luck, brother," Grant muttered. I watched him for a second as he stopped to swap his newly-acquired "I Love D.C." sweatshirt with a dark hoodie, then vanished behind Bex up the escalator.

I myself turned toward Cammie's direction. She was walking with a quick step five feet ahead of me, a sense of concentration around her, to the elevator. She didn't see me until I beat her finger to the elevator button.

She looked at me, surprised, and seemed to recognize me. "Hey," I greeted, nodding.

"Hi," she said distractedly. She punched the button again, almost nervously. Her foot tapped at a rapid speed, waiting for the elevator to appear.

She didn't look so happy when I stepped inside with her, but she didn't seem to give me another thought. Her mind was obviously preoccupied.

I looked her over closely. She wasn't pop-out beautiful, like I said, or like her friend back at the Mall, but up close she was pretty enough, with doe eyes and a cute nose.

And she apparently thought I was harmless, because she didn't even look at me until I pointed at her crest and said, "So, Guggenheim Academy—"

"Gallagher," she corrected, annoyed. As if I didn't already know.

"I've never heard of it," I told her.

She smiled slightly, as if she knew something I didn't. "Well, it's my school."

I watched her shift her weight like crazy. "You in a hurry or something?" I asked.

I saw her teeth touch her bottom lip briefly. "Actually, I'm supposed to meet my teacher at the ruby slipper exhibit," she said. "I've only got twenty minutes, and if I'm late, he'll kill me."

She didn't have a watch. There wasn't a clock in the elevator. I knew she'd probably been counting in her head this whole time, but, for fun, I asked, "How do you know?"

"Because he said: 'Meet me at the ruby slipper exhibit.'"

I smiled, then shook my head. "No, how do you know you'll only have twenty minutes? You're not wearing a watch."

"My friend just told me," she lied smoothly. Oh. She _was_ good.

I noted the way she couldn't stop moving; twiddling her thumbs, pushing her hair behind her ear, tugging at the hem of her blouse, shifting her weight—she was impatient, and a little anxious. "You fidget a lot," I informed her.

A slightly irritated look cross her face. "I'm sorry," she said, but she wasn't really sorry at all. "I have low blood sugar. I need to eat something."

I pulled a squashed bag of M&M's from my pocket and gave them to her, just to fluster her. "Here. I ate most of them already."

Surprise was etched into her features, but she controlled it, staring at the bag as if I might have some contagious disease or something. "Oh, um," she mumbled. "That's okay. Thanks though."

"Oh," I muttered, taking it back. "Okay."

Her movements were getting more and more anxious by the second, and when the elevator doors finally dinged open, she bolted out, saying "Thanks again for the candy," over her shoulder.

I sauntered out, with my hands stuffed in my pockets. Why not follow her some more? I didn't think I could stop her from getting to Mr. Solomon at the ruby slipper exhibit, but maybe I could have some fun annoying her on the way. At least make her late or something.

She was walking so fast, so tangled in her thoughts, she didn't notice me strolling behind her blatantly. Until she stopped abruptly and turned on her heel, glaring fit to kill.

"Where are you going?"

I gave her an easy grin. "I thought we were going to meet your teacher in the wonderful world of Oz."

"_We?" _Her eyes darted from left to right. I grinned wider. I was making her panic.

"Sure," I shrugged. "I'm going with you."

"No you're not," she said harshly. Her eyes were like daggers.

I arranged my face into a serious expression. "Look, it's dark. You're by yourself. And this _is_ D.C." I shrugged again, then quickly counted in my head before saying, "And you've only got fifteen minutes to meet your teacher."

I could tell by her expression: she caught that I was ninety seconds off, but she said nothing except, "Fine." She whirled around and practically ran for the museum, with me close behind her.

I made myself pant a little. "You can walk really fast," I said, but she didn't reply. I decided, just for the fun of it, to agitate her a little more. "So," I began, "do you have a name?"

"Sure. Lots of them." Her voice was coated with annoyance.

I smiled softly at her joke. "Do you have a boyfriend?" The question had sounded better in my head, where its goal had mainly been to annoy her, but coming out of my mouth? Even I could hear the real curiosity in it—and that's when I realized. I actually wanted to know, for once.

She winced a tiny bit at my question, then changed the subject. "Look, thanks for the chivalry and all, but it really isn't necessary. It's just up here. And there's a cop over there."

I acted offended. "What? You think that guy can do a better job protecting you than I can?"

She eyed me. "No, I think if you don't leave me alone, I can scream and that cop will arrest you."

I smiled again, but I stepped back a little, just in case she wasn't kidding. For just a millisecond, she smiled a little too. "Hey," she said. "Thanks anyway."

She ran off again.

And this time, I only waited two minutes before walking behind her.

* * *

><p>When I got to Dorothy's slippers, I saw Cammie running towards them, looking confused when she found no one there.<p>

I heard Mr. Solomon's voice saying, "You're four seconds late."

She spun around, looking first relieved, then determined. "But I'm alone," she declared.

Her back was to me, but Mr. Solomon saw me. He allowed himself a small smirk when he said, "No, Ms. Morgan. You're not."

That was my cue to step into the light, smile at her, and say, "Hi again, Gallagher Girl."

I took a second to enjoy the look of sheer shock on her face, followed by irritation, followed by something else I couldn't identify. I laughed internally. She was cute when she was angry.

"Nice work, Zach," Mr. Solomon congratulated, clapping me on the back. I winked towards the bewildered Cammie, who seemed to gather her thoughts and compose her face, but nothing could've prepared _me_ for what she said next.

"Hi, Blackthorne Boy."

My mouth dropped. Mr. Solomon's hand on my back went slack. How could she…? No, Blackthorne was one of the most covert spy school in the country, the most hidden. She never should've even heard the name. No one should've.

But she smirked like she knew everything.

Mr. Solomon managed a, "Very good, Ms. Morgan," but I saw the panicked look in his eyes and I knew he was thinking the same thing. _How could she know?_ "But not good enough," he continued. Cammie turned pink.

"Your mission was…what?" she demanded of me. "To keep us from achieving our mission?"

I tilted my head. "Something like that." I laughed slightly. "I thought I could just make you late for your meeting. I didn't think you'd actually tell me where it was and walk me halfway there."

She looked absolutely betrayed, then a little sick. A group of people moved into the room suddenly, separating me from Cammie and dazzling her with the flash of a camera. Mr. Solomon mouthed, _Thanks_, to me put his arm around her, and led her away, with a slightly pleased (but warning as she saw me) Bex behind them.

I put my hands in my pockets, watching them for a moment, and wandered into the shadows, laughing at Cammie's expression when she looked back at the ruby slippers, and didn't see me there.


	4. Chapter 4

**4/**

Girls were never a problem for me. Whether I wanted it or not, they seemed drawn to me, like moths to a light. They would flirt with me if they could, they would stare at me if they thought they weren't seen, they would scatter if I so much as glanced in their direction.

Other than all that, they left me alone, mostly so they could giggle from a distance, and I liked it better that way; though I kept them mostly at arms' length, I thought they were troublesome. I didn't need trouble.

I'd never had a _serious_ girlfriend before. There was an average civilian here, a beautiful scholar there, maybe an attractive sophomore at the carnival, I didn't care. I never thought too long on the fact that I was single; most of Grant's girlfriends were incessantly annoying, so I didn't bother worrying about replacing them, mostly because one never…_got_ to me.

But Cammie's little smile was burned into the back of my mind like a brand, permanently. She hadn't said she _didn't_ have a boyfriend… But why did she flinch?

The spy in me told me it would be in my best interest to leave Cammie Morgan, Bex Baxter, and any other girls they had in mind to their amateur little school. Ignorance is bliss, and the truth would crush Cammie's world into bits and pieces.

The boy in me, unfortunately, wanted to know more. My last, uh, girlfriend, hadn't left on a happy note. Okay, so maybe I was the one that left, in a way. I really don't know if being pushed out of a rickety cargo plane over Brazil counts as "leaving," but I guess it was sort of my fault. (Turns out I still had my undamaged parachute, so she _hadn't_ really wanted me dead.)

But Cammie would never push me out of a plane. She would never abandon anyone, even if it was to save herself. She was different.

Somehow, I knew it wouldn't be easy at Gallagher Academy. Girls living in a group like that was a disaster waiting to happen, especially mixed with boys like…well, like me.

It was a wonder that they hadn't burned the place down yet.

"Hi, Grant," I said, glancing behind me.

Grant flashed me one of his signature grins. "You really are a downer, Zach," he told me. "You hurt my pride." He put a hand to his chest, acting wounded.

I rolled my eyes. "Please."

His mortified expression switched to cocky. "It's because I'm gorgeous, isn't it?" I chuckled, but didn't answer.

"So," he said after a minute (Grant can't stand for silence unless his life depends on it—and sometimes not even then), "how was the famous Cameron Morgan?"

I didn't question how Grant knew about her. He was _nosy_, the way he found things out so quickly. The guys called him Gossip Girl behind his back, but considering, I had no doubt he already knew about that. "She was interesting," I responded carefully.

Grant shot me a strange glance. "Interesting? Never heard you say that about a girl before, Goode."

"Yeah, well, this one's different."

And for once, Grant had the sense to stop talking.

The ride back was one of those _rare_ times when the air is filled with, well, happiness. For once, fifteen Blackthorne Boys were at ease in a confined space.

Grant was back to his usual cocky, arrogant demeanor, wowing all the guys with his tale of rescuing Bex from the Air and Space Museum.

Marcel Bartolini got van-wide recognition for his telling of covertly creating a chain reaction to push a girl called Courtney into the Reflecting Pool.

Tyler Wong had Sean Miller in a laughing fit in the aftermath of his story about carrying a girl named Kim all the way to an ambulance for her ankle after watching her fall down a flight of stairs—then "insisting" on walking (tailing) her to the museum, a full two minutes late.

When Jonas questioned me about my tailee, I did what every spy's first instinct is to do. I lied.

"Nothing exciting," I shrugged. "I just stalled her." My story was accepted almost too easily. Almost.

By the time the van pulled to a stop, I realized, in mid hand-to-hand combat with Jonas, that this time the ride had lasted only forty-five minutes. That epiphany earned me a fist to the face, but it turned out to be worth it, because right as I started to tell someone, the van's door flung open.

"Hi, Zach." Joe Solomon's smile looked brittle in the fading light as he stood at the van's entrance. "Hello, boys."

Fifteen mutters of "Hello, sir," were deftly brushed aside by Joe's impatient expression. "I understand Blackthorne still does night drills?" he asked us.

"Yes, sir," Grant said, grinning. He was still boastingly proud of his drill record.

"Good. That's what you'll be doing tonight," Joe started. "Listen up. In the square across town, there's a Barbie doll sitting on the gazebo steps. First one to get a bullet through her eye wins." A glint appeared in Joe's eyes. "First one to bring me her _head_ gets extra credit. You have three hours."

"Yes, sir," we chanted.

"What about supplies, sir?" Jonas asked suddenly, for the first time in years not raising his hand.

"Check the rooftops." Joe placed his hand on the van's doors as if to leave, then turned back suddenly. "Turn on your comms," he reminded. "Keep your eyes peeled."

A sliver of light entered the van as he cracked open the door.

"And boys, if you're seen, you're dead."

With those words of warning, Joe Solomon was gone.

We sat in silence for a second, fifteen pairs of eyes staring at the doors, then at each other. What was Joe thinking? Pitting a whole team of Blackthorne Boys against each other? Was he crazy?

My very same thoughts seemed to be running through everyone else's as our stares turned to glares. Grant was the only one who moved as he reached hesitantly fro the van's doors and pushed them open just far enough to see through.

Sean was biting his lip so hard I thought he'd draw blood. "Well?" he demanded. "What's out there?"

Grant's voice was a mix of disbelief and pleasure when he spoke. "Oh, you've _got_ to be kidding me," he said.

"What?" Jonas asked.

Grant threw open the doors, and for the first time that night, I saw something I hadn't seen before. Dr. Steve's van was parked two miles off the streets of Roseville, Virginia, just outside the stone-walled, iron-gated, 200-year-old mansion bearing the plaque: _Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women.._

Being invisible is no easy feat. To not be seen, you have to look like everyone else. You have to be average, a real pavement artist.

But to tell the truth, it's hard to blend in when there's no one around.

The skyline of Roseville was slowly coming into view, strangely spooky against the dark, starless blue behind it. I could vaguely see a few streetlights making the roads visible, and a whisper of a shadow crossing the street.

I walked faster.

I'd only traveled a mile and a half by then, but I didn't like the sound of Tyler panting over comms, so I picked up the pace a little more.

"Mr. Wong, you have been compromised," Joe's voice spoke in my ear, followed by Tyler's curse. "Please report back to the van."

His order was met with silence.

The Roseville buildings were towering over me now, casting long dark silhouettes on the ground. I walked close to the alleys, just in case.

"Grant, no explosives," Joe warned suddenly.

The only sound after that was Grant's, "Darn." The rest was static.

I paused. From where I stood, I saw a lot of things. I noticed that the homeless man in the trashcan exactly twenty meters away was too occupied to notice me. I saw that Sean was lurking near the town square, waiting to grab Barbie's head. I knew that, if Joe was telling the truth, a sniper gun of some sort would be waiting for me on the rooftop of any building surrounding the gazebo.

I quickly checked for anyone watching, listened for footfalls, then, as fast as I could possibly move, I crouched down, picked the lock on the nearest door, and shut myself inside.

Disabling the alarm was more of a job for Jonas than me, but after a few wasted seconds and a scorched finger, I managed to turn it off.

Hacking the elevator? That was different. Why? I didn't even try. One look at the control box and I was running up the stairs.

I knew I didn't have much time left. Over my comms unit, I could hear somebody rappelling down a building, and the ding of an elevator. I had to hurry.

Well, it turned out that Joe was telling the truth. A sniper rifle was sitting on the ledge, already loaded with BB pellets, safety off, pointing to the little white gazebo sitting in Roseville town square. A pair of night-vision goggles and a single bullet cartridge, complete with casing, was placed beside it.

I understood immediately. The goggles meant _watch your back_. The BB pellets were for opponents. The bullets were for Barbie.

Rule number three of being a spy: check your surroundings. So my first instinct when a pellet whizzed past me was to duck down and scan the roofs. A dark shape across the street waved at me—Grant.

Once I put on the goggles, I could see him clear as day. He raised his hand and signed to me: code for _Left flank_.

I didn't even bother to signal back. I swiveled to the left, spotted Marcel down the barrel of his own gun, and shot him. Twice. He went down.

"Nice shot!" Dr. Steve cried in my ear.

Grant flashed a thumbs up in the corner of my vision. I returned it. We had a simple, unvoiced understanding. Whichever one of us shot Barbie first, the other would get her head.

Using sign language was a precaution we always used. Sure, comms were useful, but everyone could hear whatever was said. Morse code? Yeah, if you wanted everyone in sight to read the blinking light. We would've been shot down before we could lift a finger.

I signed with one hand, _Head or dead?_

He signed back, _Head. Cover me._ He took one more second to shoot George, "asleep" on a bench by the square, then hooked himself to a harness and began rappelling down the alley side of the building.

I didn't like how close Sean was hovering. I shot him in the foot just as Joe said, "Mr. Miller, you've been compromised, please report back to the van."

Sean threw an angry look at sky, then the finger, then started limping back. I would probably pay for that later, but it was every man for himself. I would tell him that.

Grant's signal from down below was my cue. I swiftly switched out the BB pellets for the bullets, and focused Barbie's head into my scope, but just as I was about to pull the trigger, a bullet I knew wasn't mine ripped a hole into her right cheek.

"Mr. Franklin, you missed," Joe said through my comms unit, as if Carter Franklin didn't already know. "Report back to the van."

Carter muttered a pretty filthy word in French, but I could hear him starting to walk back.

"Zach, Grant, Benny, Jonas, you're still in the game. I expect that Barbie head soon."

I didn't waste a second. I aimed for Barbie's smoking, half-melted head, and shot her straight through the eye, then switched out the cartridges, and shot Benny just in case. Then I watched through the scope as Grant and Jonas both raced for Barbie.

Normally, one would've thought that Jonas wouldn't stand a chance against Grant, who was both bigger and more aggressive, but I'd seen Jonas in Block Five (otherwise known as Execution Methods). He looked thin and weak, but I knew for a fact he was crafty and _fast._

Sure enough, at the last second he slid through Grant's legs, seized Barbie, and made a beeline for the streets, only to be taken down by a BB pellet to the knee and crushed under 115 pounds of Grant.

They wrestled for Barbie for a minute or two, ripped her in half, then wrestled some more. I aimed for Jonas in any way I could, but the two of them were rolling and punching so much I didn't try, just in case I'd hit Grant.

Finally, with thirty minutes still ticking on the clock, Grant kicked Jonas away from him, who took one of my pellets in the stomach, grabbed Barbie's mangled head, and ran as fast as he could for the van.

"Zachary, grab Jonas and get to the van," Joe ordered me. "The game's almost up."

As I hooked myself to a harness, tied a rope to the nearest pole, and began to rappel down the side of the building, I paused for a second to survey what was my last time in the outside world before we were confined to Gallagher Academy.

The moon was the only source of light from above. The air was cool and sharp. There was almost no trace of anyone around, except for the couple on the park bench behind me. I would miss fresh air.

"Hey, you okay?" I whispered to Jonas as I pulled him up.

He groaned, clutching his stomach. "That was some shot, Zach. I'll have a bruise in the morning."

"Sorry," I apologized. "All's fair in love and war." He could only manage to snort weakly in response.

It was only then, half-carrying, half-dragging Jonas, to notice what Joe had said. _The game's almost up._ He'd called me Zachary, our Code Red trigger.

The game's almost up.

What could that mean? Was my mother on to him? Well, she always was, but was she getting too close this time? Was there a breach? Was Joe in danger? Too many questions were running through my mind to focus, so I pushed them aside.

For now.

And the last words that would haunt me that night were Joe's, "Game over."


End file.
